The Adventures of Poor Calder the Housecarl
by bludormouse
Summary: Ordinary title for an rather for a rather random and silly fic, mostly about the torturings of the most unenthusiastic housecarl by his Thane, the Dragonborn. CalderxFemaleOC one-sided , FemaleOCxFarkas, CalderxCalder more pairings soon . Some Yaoi later on. Very little romance. WARNING: Some Spoilers for Main Quest, Stormcloaks, Companions, Windhelm, and Miscellaneous Quest
1. The Beginning: First Day

**The Adventures of Poor Calder the Housecarl**

_by bludormouse_

Calder had seen her come in once or twice. He never expected her to be the rumored Dovahkiin.

As she spoke in quiet words with Stormcloak leader sitting on his throne, he watched her conspicuously over the hall table's tableware. She was a Breton, about the average slim size for them but still a head shorter than a Nord. Her light hair was pulled back, so her cold blue gaze could stare right into the Jarl's eye as they conversed. Her serious face seemed almost pinched as she obviously dissected and examined every word he spoke. No other emotion beyond deep discernment played across her features.

Beyond her deadly gaze, it seemed almost beyond him that such a slim woman could down a dragon.

As the last mumbled words were spoken between them, the Breton woman left the Jarl's side to come near the table. Calder lowered his eyes and waited for her to hurry out the Palace's doors, as she usually did. Lately, she had been briskly coming and going like the wind, seeking a meeting with the Jarl, and after getting orders or concluding her business, briskly leaving again. Her last piece of business was her almost single-handed siege on Fort Neugrad against the Imperials, and he was sure she would have more Forts to ransack. He mused on the half-eaten pheasant leg on his plate, thinking he might as well stop gawking at a local hero and eat his dinner.

He lost himself in his thoughts, and was only startled out of them when the Jorlief the Steward, sitting next to him, elbowed him in the stomach.

"Hmm?" Looking up, he saw two pair of eyes staring at him expectantly. Cold blue eyes seemed to slice through his skin and freeze his very innards. If she pointed that look at dragons, he thought uneasily, he was sure Skyrim wouldn't be having a dragon problem.

Her voice, though, was a warm and deep feminine. Albeit a bit exasperated.

"You're sure, steward, I can't have one more attentive?" Her gaze looked him up and down, and then she scoffed. "A dragon would slice him up seven different ways before it sunk in his head to lift his sword. I need a man who can fight, not a fool absorbed in his dinner."

Before Calder could possibly process what this woman was talking about, or even get properly feather-ruffled about her rude comment, the Steward amiably began listing Calder's credentials as a fighter, mentioning his long lineage of fathers and mothers as shield-companions and trustworthy housecarls. And then it clicked together. Ah, he had finally become an official housecarl.

To the Dragonborn, no less.

Any man or woman would have been beaming with pride. Calder, however, found himself overwhelmed with uneasiness. He had heard stories about her—legends made in only less than a year's time about her rising leadership in the Stormcloaks and the Companions. If she had bought a residence in Windhelm, he supposed it meant her loyalty leaned more to Ulfric's cause. Yet he couldn't be sure.

What made him uneasy though was that beyond these rumors, he knew she also did many side venues of interest. She was a notorious tomb-raider, a one-man army against bandits and beasts, and there were even rumors of her involvement with the Thieves' guild and Dark Brotherhood. Obviously if he was to be her housecarl, she would expect him to tag along in the life-threatening adventures. And Calder was a little too comfortable with keeping his skin in one piece.

For the Nines' sake, he panicked in his head, she's already measuring me up for dragon fighting-and I haven't even been on a bandit raid in years!

Yet obviously, he reasoned, he couldn't deny being her Housecarl. No matter if she wanted someone else, as the Steward was just explaining to her now, Calder was the only man left in the Jarl's service trained in being a Housecarl and not fighting in the war against the Imperials. He was all they had. So left with only to accept their fate, Calder put on his best face and stood to respectfully at the woman.

"Honored to serve you, my Thane."

When he looked up, her face was pinched again in scrutiny. It wasn't a very ugly expression, but it certainly wasn't pretty. It made her mouth bunch up in a pucker, and her brow furrow deeply. He didn't know whether to laugh at it out of humor or nervousness, for it was both comical and intimidating. It was ridiculous, and he wondered how the Jarl kept a straight face. His was straight only from fear of getting that icey gaze again. And possibly a bludgeoning from the elven war axe strapped to her side.

Finally, with a sucking pop from her mouth, her face cleared to a grim line. She muttered a soft utterance, accepting her fate, and turned to the Jorlief. "Has all of my furniture been moved?"

"It has," the Steward responded. Calder didn't know why the old man seemed so happy, especially at him. Calder sure didn't feel happy. He guessed it was because the old Steward felt proud for Calder, that he was finally becoming a housecarl for a Thane, especially the Dragonborn. Obviously he didn't see it from Calder's perspective.

At the Steward's response, the woman suddenly began walking to the doors, briskly passing by Calder. As he turned around, she spoke over her shoulder.

"Keep up, Carrot-Hair."

Carrot-Hair? Calder inwardly grimaced, but quickly began following after her across the hallway. He managed on his long legs to beat her to the heavy iron door, and heaving it open for her, battled with his hard breathing to say, "Hear you are…my Thane…"

She swept right by him, and to Calder's dismay, stomped on her steel boots right out into the icey courtyard of the Palace of the Kings, not saying a word.

(/)

The whole way to the market square was dull, and its only contribution to Calder was in him realizing two things about his Thane. They only increased his anxiety over his new position, tenfold.

First, he witnessed her whispered dealings with the merchant Niranye behind her stall, right in front of him. Septims and obviously stolen goods traded hands, before they both hushed and the Breton woman moved to Aval's stall. Obviously the rumors of her Thieves guild dealings were true-and Niranye was a fence. Maybe another reason why the Dragonborn had made Windhelm her headquarters.

After dealing with Aval and emptying his stores of gold with her selling of dragon bones and scales-good lord, how many dragons had she killed?-the second sign that Calder should worry was at the Blacksmith Quarters.

"Strip."

Calder, thinking the banging chorus of hammers against metal had impaired his hearing, blinked rapidly in disbelief at her face. "I...beg you're pardon?"

In her hands, the Dragonborn held a set of steel armor she had just fired and beaten on the workbench for the past few hours. She now shoved it at Calder's middle, causing him to slightly stumble back, and imperiously gazed at him like he was an imbecile.

"I need to see if it fits you-else you'll be running around with me in ill-fitting armor. The Nine help me if I'm sneaking on an enemy, and my inept housecarl is blowing my cover with chinking too-big armor, or breaking my concentration by whining like a baby because his dick's chafing."

Whatever hope Calder had been holding that this woman had found him ill-fitting and would simply leave him at home and find someone else to follow her, was dashed by that sentence. It also dashed the idea that behind those scary blue eyes was the mind of a sane, reasonable person. He partially believed that ample bosom was a lie, because not a single shred of feminity seemed to be in her.

Calder obviously had taken too long to answer, because she scoffed again at him.

"Did you not hear me? I said strip, idiot. Hurry up."

By now, they were making quite a spectacle of themselves in the small market square; Caldor holding the steel armor in his hands, his face he could guess a deep red, while the small Breton woman demanded him to dance about in his smalls in front of everyone in the freezing cold. His wee soldier shriveled like a turtle's head at the very thought, and he could see some of the people around him thankfully forcing themselves to ignore them, especially the two smiths. Others were openly watching, though.

Maybe if I reason with her, he thought, grasping at straws. "M...My Thane, I must respectfully decline. Could we not simply go to your house and let me try it on there-"

"I don't have the time, you fool! I need the equipment and materials here. Are you not paying attention? What point would I have of going home, then coming back here?"

"Of course my Thane, my apologies, but you see...I simply can't-"

Before Calder could finish, it seemed the woman had lost her patience. Huffing in intense irritation, she cried, "For the Nine's sake, don't be such a baby. Strip now and get it over with. If I have to be bent over the bench again, I want it over and done with."

She advanced on him, and right in front of everyone began nimbly unbuckling his armor. Before his housecarl training could kick in, Calder gasped and grabbed at her arms. "M-My Thane?"

With impressive strength, she batted his hands away like they were a pair of moths and returned to the complicated knot of his armor's buckles. Finally, he remembered his training, and in shame hung his arms by his sides and let her do as she pleased. In an offhanded way, his brain marveled at how rapidly she was getting his armor off-it was both impressive, and a bit disturbing how much skill she had. Yet mostly the organ tried to keep his heated pale skin from revealing how utterly embarassing this was, and to ignore the entertained titherings of the crowd around him.

Armor pieces fell to the cold ground in loud clangs, until finally after a seeming eternity, the Breton woman stepped back and Calder was left in his smalls. In front of everyone and their grandmother in Windhelm.

With impressive fortitude, Calder's deep red face managed to look up. And he nearly cried in outrage at seeing her pause to look him up and down in his shamed state. He swore it was the chilled wind that made him shiver convulsively, and not the icey glare of her eyes as she scanned with a small smile at his freckled features. Damn woman!

He managed to snap out of his embarassed rage, and quickly strapped on the armor she had made for him. It was slightly lighter, and obviously upgraded to be more impenatrable. He was surprised when small hands began helping him reach the buckles on his back. When he was done, she circled around him, roughly grabbing a piece of his armor sometimes to see if it shifted.

"How does it fit," she finally said.

He moved his limbs and stretched. It fit good, and he told her so. Better than his other armor, though that he didn't admit.

She nodded, seeming relieved though he couldn't tell behind her stare, and turned to Oengul to sell Calder's old armor. Nevermind it was Calder's to begin with. Still, he didn't mind losing the old, dented set. It was uncomfortably snug and didn't see much action anyway.

He would have liked to keep the money though. Obviously his Thane thought of it as payment for his new set.

She voiced this as they left the square and headed to her home in Valunstrad. "I'm taking this for the expenses in material. It doesn't cover even half...but I'm sure you can make it up to me."

He didn't like the lilt of mischief in her voice, so he pretended not to hear it. "Yes, my Thane."

As she walked slightly ahead of him, she peered at him over her shoulder. "You seem like a real stickler, Carrot-Hair. I have to be honest, that worries me."

He blinked at her, incredulous at the thought that he could worry her. He felt instantly weary. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"You aren't my first housecarl, you know." She turned her head, minding the steps as she ascended from the cemetery to Valunstrad. Her steps were lighter, and she seemed in a better mood as she solemnly continued, "When I spooked that dragon out of Whiterun, I got one from Jarl Balgruuf, named Lydia. She was a stickler too, always nosing in my business about my...private ways of gaining funds, or not minding her footing when she stepped in front of me in fights. A real briar in my backside."

He wondered if this Lydia was safely tucked away near a hearthfire, having a good drink of mead and enjoying not being made to follow this crazed, demanding woman. He felt a stab of jealousy.

It was swept away in the wind when she added, "A real shame about our last adventure together. Died mysteriously in a draugr-filled dungeon I was splunking in. Sad no one could find the body...real sad."

Calder shivered in cold dread, his eyes wide. They came to Hjerim, and when she impatiently waved at him to the door, he obeyed and numbly opened it for her.

Peering in, she clapped her hands in glee. "How wonderful! They managed to clean up all the blood. Come, Carrot. Let's explore our new home."

* * *

(Skip the first four or five paragraphs if you want to know where I'm heading with this thing. Or skip the whole thing to the next chapter-if its up yet).

Lydia, by the way, is the bane of my existence. Yet I've never killed her-somehow, the woman never seems to die on accident! Yet I've killed Farkas and Calder many-a time, and had to reload many games. Finally I just left her at Dragonreach and went on my merry way with my favorite housecarl, Calder.

I should probably explain why I'm making a fic about Calder. I didn't notice until recently, but the man seems to be very quiet and peevish. Also a bit cowardly. There's something about his red sideburns and his less-than-nord pale skin, and the pinched, 'I wanna say something but I can't and I'm holding my tongue' sort of face he makes. His voice is also sad sounding, like he'd much rather be somewhere else other in the dangerous places I take him. And me being a sadistical person in videogames, take a strong delight in torturing such people.

And no one can tell me that when playing Skyrim, when their playing with their favorite follower, they don't converse with them outloud while playing. Because I'm constantly saying 'Damn it, Calder, keep up!' or 'Holy crud, Calder! Get out the way!' or 'Calder...I believe shit's hit the fan...to the exit, now, chop chop.'

The Dovahkiin lady in this is not me. I would not treat poor Calder like this-I treat him rather well. But sometimes, when Farkas and him are alone in Windhelm, and I'm derping on one of my thieving escapades, I wonder to myself...just what are those boys up to?

And it doesn't help I'm a yaoi fangirl.

Also, most important, the Dovahkiin doesn't have a name for a reason. Her past, her backstory, and her name aren't important. She portrays a character anyone can play as-it didn't seem right to have an OC as the hero of the game so I just didn't give her a name. The only other OC's I have planned are evil monsters trolling on our heros, like giants or hagravens.

If you think Calder is OOC, you're not the only one. The more I have Calder following me, the more confused I am about what his personality even IS. Do housecarls even have one? Only aggro Argis and the snooty 'stop stealing shit' chick from Riften seem like they do. Oh, and the Lydia stereotypes. Still, he keeps looking at me with that pinched up, 'please don't go in that scary cave' look, so I keep writing.

I plan this little fic to be rife with smut, silliness, and general Calder torture and embarrassment. Possible Yaoi, but very little romance. It's just gonna be silly fic after fic, though I do plan for some plot later in. So far, the next few chapters titled with The Beginning will be plotted. After I introduce some characters and some story, then we can continue with the random craziness. *points at giant list of poor Calder situations* I have more than a dozen ideas...heehee.

If You Like Prissy Gingers

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Being Tortured

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This is the Button

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You Push

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	2. The Beginning: Rude Awakening

**Chapter 2**

**Rude Awakening**

That night, sleep was evasive for Calder. Crammed in his small quarters across from his Thane's master bedroom, loud and disturbing sounds were keeping him awake. He tried clamping his pillow around his head to block them out, but the pitiful sack of itchy hay did not help one bit.

In a continuous loop, he could hear:

"….Rrrrr…Hiss, graaawr! Snurrrrr….rrrrrrr…Rurr-rawr!" –snap—"Roof….Rurrrrr…."

Poor Calder's eyes were wide and blood-shot. Such inhuman noises had been drifting across the hall of his and his Thane's bedroom for the past few hours of the night, shaking him out of his peaceful dreams and never ceasing thence. He had not dared to venture out of his room, thinking—praying, really—that he was only hearing things. For it sounded…it sounded as if a huge, wild beast was in the Breton woman's bedroom.

'Should I go in?' For the fifth millionth time, the insistent question peeped in his head. 'No' was his constant answer. He was not an idiot. The animal would surely hear him putting his armor back on, and swoop on him before he could grab the dagger from his mattress. And besides, it was tangling with the Dovahkiin. She could handle herself, right?

Even as he thought this, his Housecarl training still filled him with guilt and uncertainty. And after an hour of the noise, another emotion crept in. The sounds had been going on for a long while—why hadn't she awoken and dealt with the problem? More hours passed, and even more horrifying thoughts entered into his head. Could…Could she be the cause of the noises? Could she be the wild animal snarling and snorting in the other room, practically making the walls shake with its muffled growls?

A cold sweat washed over Calder. He had heard of such things. But he couldn't believe the Dovahkiin could be one. He couldn't even wrap his head around it. She didn't look any different from a normal Breton. Well, except for those electric blue eyes. And, for that matter, that gaze on that narrow face of hers that almost made one feel…intimidated. Hunted.

Like they were prey.

Calder tried to keep his breath even, but he was hyperventilating. Sweat was like cold fingers running down his back. He stuffed his face in his pillow and, inhaling the musky hay, tried to get a grip on himself. 'Werewolf' he kept repeating in his head. 'Werewolf, werewolf. Werewolf. She's a werewolf. I'm in a house with a werewolf. I'm in a bed, sleeping in a house with a werewolf. She's a werewolf, and I'm going to die. BY THE NINE, MY THANE'S A WEREWOLF-!'

He didn't notice the ceasing of the noises with a loud snort, nor the long pause of silence before a bed creaked, some stomping occurred in the hallway beyond, and his bedroom door opened.

"Carrot…"

Calder launched himself out of his bed and onto his feet, as if he had been shot with lighting. His legs were jelly, though, and he only managed to stagger back down after standing up. "M-My Thane?"

She was standing there, hair tousled and out of the pin that usually held it back, with a lantern from the hallway eclipsing her in its light. She was wearing a man's thick shirt, which came down halfway to her kneecaps, and her feet were bear. Even if a blizzard was going on outside, and it was nippy even for spring.

If Calder was not still metaphorically pooping himself with fear, he was sure his pale face would be very red right now.

The voice that had startled him out of bed had been groggy from sleep. She looked at him with a very tired, exasperated glare, and continued in a scratchy voice, "Carrot, I can't sleep."

Calder took a terrified moment to let his brain absorb this information. "….You, ah…can't sleep?"

"Yes," she drawled. "I just said that. Don't be an idiot, Carrot."

Being as Calder could not right away think of a response that did not make him an idiot, he decided to keep his mouth shut. For a long while, neither of them spoke; Calder shifted weight on his feet, gazing uneasily at her in only his smalls and a cotton shirt, while she groggily glared at some point in the space around Calder's head. Finally, Calder couldn't take it anymore:

"Ah…would a glass of hot goat milk help?"

Her eyes narrowed further. She blackly growled a negative.

Calder was exasperated, standing next to his bed in absolute fear of his possible Lycan Thane. What was he to do? Housecarl training certainly didn't cover this. They taught you to serve in battle, not lull to sleep a restless, impossible woman! Much less a Dragonborn werewolf. That couldn't possibly be in the manual.

He wondered if anyone ever explained to her that a Housecarl was a companion and shield-servant, not a slave for her selfish whims. If he ever got a chance, when he wasn't being glared down into submission or undergoing one of her tantrums like that at the blacksmith's, he was going to have to politely enlighten her.

Maybe in her better moods, she was more…easier to talk to? Well, a man could dream.

"Mmrph…this pillow is too smelly…"

Calder's head swiveled to find the woman had clambered into his bed when he wasn't looking, and was now making a to-do about his pitiful examples for pillows. Fussy little grunts passed her lips as she wallowed on his mattress. "Why is this bed so hard?" she finally cried.

_Maybe because you gave me a bed still made from wood, rope, and a hay mattress?_ "Umm…" was all Calder wisely muttered.

Obviously the question had been rhetorical. She ignored his utterings, and after a second had calmed down in a cocoon made of his quilts, her head poking out and her eyes closed. She looked quite comfortable. 'Is she really thinking of sleeping in my bed?' Calder wondered. He thought of her perfectly serviceable mahogany bed across the hall, with goose feather pillows and mattress, and big enough for at least three Nords. Calder could have tried to persuade her back into her bed, but what would be the use, now that she was seemingly falling asleep. He guessed he was expected to sleep on the floor, and slightly cringed at the thought. The freezing floor certainly wouldn't be better than his musty hay mattress. Perhaps the floor near the kitchen hearth would be better. He bit back a defeated sigh.

The Dragonborn's eyes cracked, showing testy blue eyes. "Carrot, what are you doing?"

"Ah...standing?"

"Try something more useful. Fetch my pillows and the lantern in the hall."

Calder quickly did as he was told. When he returned, his pillows were shoved on the floor. She took the goosefeather ones from his arms, and began beating them into submission until they were supposedly at the peak of comfort. She sank into them, and demanded, "Get the leather bound book from my room—second bookshelf near the door, third row to the bottom, next to the basket of nightshade."

He did as bidded, going back into the unlit room and rifling through the dark. He came back, and held it out for her to take. She looked at him, and raised an eyebrow.

"Calder, I don't want to read it. I want you to read it. Out loud."

He stared blankly at her. "You want me to read you…"

'A bedtime story'. He clamped his mouth before he could say it. Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn't slipped up so far, what with his usual big mouth. He was sure his days were numbered, though. It could only last for so long.

She glared at him in warning, then patted the side of the bed next to her. "Come on," she said, smacking her lips sweetly at him as if he was a dog.

Unamused, and cautious as always, Calder sat on the bedside and lied down. He was practically on the edge…but the bed was so warm, an alluring contrast to the freezing house he had been forced to walk around in only his smalls, and he couldn't much complain with that. The pillows were much better than any pillows he had ever had in his life. They must have sacks of dried lavender in them, because they smelled heavenly. Another smell lingered in them, and he wondered if maybe the smell was from her—

Calder stomped those thoughts down before they even fully surfaced. Forgive him for having an overly-imaginative cock, but he wasn't suicidal, damn it. Far from it. He liked his freckly skin, and he wanted to keep as much as he could of it. He reminded himself of this, over and over, and stiffly leaned back on the mountain of pillows.

The Breton woman, still like a caterpillar in her thick quilt, stuck out an arm and grabbed another nearby. She draped it unceremoniously around them, and wiggled farther down in them until only her face was visible, right next to his elbow. Obviously she didn't have the stamina for the cold like the frost-blooded natives of Skyrim.

Her brow furrowed at Calder looking down at her, and her eyes narrowed. Hastily, Calder opened the book and, after reading the title to himself, said out loud, "The…Lusty Argonian Maid?"

He looked at her uncertainly, and found her eyes twinkling in response. It was extremely unnerving for poor Calder.

"Go on," she urged quietly. She wiggled in the bed, saying impetuously, "And do voices with it."

Calder felt his cheeks turning red again. What a bawdy thing to read for a bedtime story. He opened the book and rifled through the few pages. "It's err…rather short," he said, stalling.

She grunted in impatience. "Calder…" she whined.

She whined. The Dragonborn was whining. At him.

Calder stopped to savor such a thing, before staring at the dark-circled eyes of his Thane. Though her eyes were wide, she had all the physical signs of someone who didn't get much sleep. He wondered how much of her impetuous and insufferable behavior came from her condition. Her furry condition, that is. Yet he didn't know, for he was almost sure he had never met another werewolf before.

He sighed softly, and turning the first page of the book, cleared his throat.

"Ahem…The Lusty Argonian Maid…Act Four, Scene Three."

"Voices," she urged softly. Her breath swept across the skin of his arm. She sounded rather gleeful. "Don't forget voices."

Calder nodded sagely. He cleared his throat again. His voice was already a slight tenor, but somehow he found it in him to manage a high-pitched female's. "Oh, certainly not sir—"

He had to stop because the woman had broken into tinkling giggles. He waited with a mockingly grave face for her to stop, until seemingly it appeared that the giggles only slowed for a moment, to pick up again for another minute or so.

Finally, when it died down to a full beat, he cleared his throat and read again. "Certainly not sir, I am but here—"

"Pffffft, heeheeheeheehee!"

Calder, again, waited another few minutes, the giggling woman hiding her face in his shoulder as her muffled fit continued over and over. When it didn't stop, he said in a chiding voice:

"My Thane, I really cannot do this if you interrupt me. If you want me to read this, I plead that you stop—"

"No, " she cried, head popping up. Her eyes were still laughing, but her mouth was in a tight line, albeit a crooked line. A single giggle slipped out. "It's just that…oh god, Calder you sound as if someone smacked your ball sack with a dwarven sledgehammer."

Calder. **Calder.** So she _DID_ know his name! And all this time, the annoying nickname of 'Carrot'…! He immediately wanted to say something about this, maybe even demand that she cease such an embarrassing alias for him. Yet he quickly squelched that. It would spoil the mood, and she was finally being…well, not amiable, but at least a lot nicer than she had the whole day. And she was in such a good mood. It gave him hope that maybe his new life as her housecarl wouldn't be so bad.

"I sincerely hope that never happens." He enunciated this by silently crossing his legs under the quilt.

She laughed, and then gave him a wry look. "You should be prepared for anything. You don't want to be caught by surprise by anything we'll be doing."

"Really?" he said, uneasy. "And what will we be doing?"

"Making money." She said it with a shrug.

Calder had no idea what that meant. "…But um, what about the dragons?"

She grinned, her eyes sparking again. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Consider Calder mystified. "Dragons give money?"

Her brow furrowed and she huffed. "No, they do not. Sadly. But their parts do!"

"….Parts?"

"Hearts, scales, bones, and stuff. Tons of nuts out right now going fanatic for dragon body parts. I think a lot of them just want it for alchemy, but other just put them in jars and put them around their house, or hang em on their walls. You will not believe how much a taxidermied dragon head makes."

He was sure it would be thousands of septims. But he honestly never thought of anyone making a market for severed dragon heads. Or dragon parts for that matter.

The Dovahkiin had, apparently.

She was still talking as Calder tried to wrap his head around this. "…and then there's all the parts of other things too! Like troll fat and horker tusks and giants' toes and mammoth hide. People really like the mammoth hide, but their tusks are the big sellers. And sabrecat heads as wall mounts are fast commerce as well—"

"But," he finally interrupted, "My Thane, what about Alduin?"

The animation in her movements quickly died away. She stared at him, until her eyes just bored right into his skull through his sockets. The air was suddenly so thick, one could hardly breathe.

Calder cautiously pierced through the sudden cold between them, wondering what he had said wrong. "Didn't…didn't the Greybeards call you from the Throat of the World?"

Rumors had been going crazy ever since the Th'um of the Greybeards had summoned the dragonborn to their hermitage on the mountain top. Everyone expected her to solve the dragon problem, by confronting the dragon causing it. Calder had been sure that would be her mission all along.

The Breton snorted, dissolving the cold air between them. "Those old limp-dicks? Hell no, they don't care about him. They just sit up on their perch and watch everything, and read old books. They'd rather let everything go to Oblivion than lend a hand."

Before Calder could say anything, she continued, "And the only reason they called me up there was to try and turn me into one of them. Another old fart-bucket—me! They taught me a few tricks, but as soon as that was done I told them to suck my tits and left. Hell no am I staying in their crummy monastery to freeze my ass off and read books all my life. I mean…books are fine, but not the cold and not doing anything else for eternity."

After her rant, the Dragonborn glared off into a random direction and sat in glowering silence. Calder watched her, then cleared his throat and said, "But the um…the dragons…?"

She huffed, turning to look at him, her gaze not so searing. "Oh, I'll kill them. I'll kill them alright, but Carrot…well, damn it I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask to be this. I had a life. I had things to do and people to go back to. I had plans, before that day in Helgen. But now…now I don't have anything."

She looked down at her hands. "All I have are these…expectations for me. Thousands of strangers, all expecting something out of me. All wanting me to solve their damn problems. And I don't even know them…but it's all because of what I am. What I was born into. Powers I've only just began to grasp, but something I don't even have a right to use for myself, according to other people. That…that isn't very fair, don't you think?"

Calder didn't say anything, but he had to admit that, no, that was not very fair.

As he watched her, her eyes narrowed on her hands. She glared up at him. "So excuse me, if I don't think I need to live up to what people think I should be doing. Because I know, Carrot. I know that's what you're thinking. That I'm the only one who can help. I'm the only one who can kill these things. But damn it, Carrot, nobody's asked me what I think. Everyone expects so much, but no ones asked...what I expect out of…out of me! "

"...And what…what do you expect out of you?"

Calder had no idea why he had asked that, but there it was, hanging in the air between them. And she didn't immediately answer. She licked her lips and opened her mouth as if she was about to, but after a moment of hesitation simply just snapped it shut and didn't say anything. She only glared uneasily at him.

With a snarl, she flopped back into the pillows, her back to him. Calder watched as she wiggled deeper into the quilts, and finally stilled. Her muffled voice said, "Just go get another fucking book, Calder."

Calder obeyed. Leaving the warmth of his bed, he went to her room and grabbed an armful of books. In the candlelight of the lantern, he read her three out loud, with her never responding or turning over. The candle grew smaller and smaller, and finally the light was so pitiful he would have to find another candle before reading the next. Ah, but he was so tired. His eyes were heavy, and a yawn drew out of his mouth as he laid the books on the floor near him. He looked at his Thane, wondering if she was even awake. Carefully, he grasped her shoulder and shook it lightly.

"Hey…do you want another book?"

Her body was limp under his grip. A soft snore slipped out.

That was as good as an answer as any.

Snuffing out the candle, Calder curled into the bed and closed his eyes in the dark. His right butt cheek was hanging off the edge, for someone had decided to hog the very middle of it, yet it didn't take long for him to slip off into sleep.

He was having the best sleep of his life when he awoke to a snarling, rabid wolf looming over him in his bed.

Calder let out a high-pitched shriek. "SHIT!"

"Grawf!"

Before it could tear his face off, Calder stopped it by its throat. It snarled and writhed in his grasped, its eyes an unholy yellow and dead set on him. Calder searched frantically under his mattress, straining against the wolf until he found—aha!—the steel dagger he kept there. He stabbed the wolf in the throat, seized with that survival instinct that turns cowards into killers. It yelped, and wriggled out of his grasp and onto the floor, where it staggered with the dagger still in its throat until it bled out and died.

Calder, covered in wolf blood and akimbo with adrenaline, sat stalk upright in his bed. He shot out of it onto his feet, because that was the only thing he could think of doing. It was only when he was standing there, shaking with his heart racing like a horse, did he notice the lack of smalls covering his boys. And it was only standing thence that he found his smalls, lying on the floor near the foot of his bed. For some insane reason, it felt wrong to stand in front of a carcass, moments after you almost died, in only your birthday suit, so he went over to put them back on.

However, when he grabbed his smalls, he was confused to find them wet. Why were they wet, he wondered. Yet being a veteran 'fapper', he quickly saw why.

They were soaked in semen.

But why—

Oh, but he knew why.

And just as he realized it, standing rigid while blush crept across him from head to toe, his Thane's voice called sweetly from below:

"Carrot~! If you're done playing with the puppy I got you, then could you be a dear and please come down to the kitchen? I'm hungry, and it seems I've accidentally lit everything on fire."

* * *

I had the sudden urge at 'they were soaked in semen' to dramatically play an organ.

DUN DUN...DUUNNNN!

...Anyway. It was getting way to plotty and cozy, so I had to put a wolf into his bedroom. I HAD TOOOOOO. Don't look at me like that. IT HAD TO BE DONE I SAY. And the semen...? ...Well it seemed like a restless werewolf that doesn't sleep (nope, she was faking it), would sadistically jack off her housecarl and then rifle away his piddled-in panties.

The logic, btw, was that if he so happened to die from the wolf, well at least she sent him off with a lovely goodbye. Guilt-free Dovahkiin lady! *yaaaay*

If you don't know why she couldn't sleep, and told yourself that its cause she suffers from insomnia, you are wrong and need to trounce about as a werewolf in Skyrim. Being a Lycan means that you don't get a bonus from sleep-you're 'restless'. That, of course, sparked my imagination. 'How would they be restless? Are they enflamed with Hircine's visions of the hunt? are they like restless dogs when they sleep? how can I torture my favorite red-head with this? Hmmmmmmmz.'

Dovahkiin lady hasn't learned that with great power, comes great responsibility. She's an anti-hero. She wants to use her power for herself. Because, its silly to think that if people had superpowers, they would instantly think 'oh my glob, i must save the world now, kthxbai'. 90%, I would think, would be like 'schweet, how can I make this work for me, and for what I want?' That can be protecting others, or gaining worldly possessions, or even keeping your own skin alive. Its part of being human, I think.

Those hero-types are so suicidal. And people should stop expecting things out of them. For glob's sake, how much stress can a person take, with millions of strangers expecting you to keep shit from hitting the fan?

Okay, done talking. Thanks for reading! Til the new chapter~.

Next Chapter

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Will Have

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Buttsmex

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...Maybe

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Or Maybe Just Farkas

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Review? :D

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